


Keep It One Hundred [For Alternate Captain Kane]

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (because all my porn has those), Airplane Cuddles, Alternate Captain Kane, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fucking, M/M, Milestones, Porn with Feelings, Sweater Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny likes Patrick's A. </p><p>A lot. </p><p>#StayHot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It One Hundred [For Alternate Captain Kane]

The mood is light in the locker room. 

It was a hard fought game, and as ugly as it might’ve been–a short staffed, straight up limp to the win–two points are two points. 

Style doesn’t matter on game seventy-eight, which is a good thing, because Jonny’s not getting any pretty points for that ear of his. 

Patrick can’t stop staring at it.  

Jonny gives his post-game speech, winded and red-faced, and Patrick just thinks about how really fucking gross it is the whole time, all bloody and stitched.

“Made it harder on ourselves than we needed to, eh, boys? Big fuckin’ goal by Bread Man to tie it up late there,” Jonny hoots, clapping in that way he does. Patrick chuckles to himself, eyes on the ear. 

“Wasn’t all pretty, but we didn’t fuckin’ quit and found a way to come away with both–a big two points there, boys. Be ready to do it again on Sunday, yeah? Let’s go.” 

Patrick hollers along, barely expending the energy to slap his thigh in makeshift claps; he’s tired as hell, amused and relieved all at once. He finally got a puck to go in the fucking net; Bread Man, too. All things Patrick’s happy about. 

Another thing he’s happy about, another thing he can’t stop doing: 

Touching the ‘A’ on his chest. 

He’d never admit it to anyone but himself and maybe Jonny, but he likes it. It’s not ideal, coming at the expense of Duncs and Hoss, but it makes him feel important, bigger than the goal scoring and sweet passes; and it’s short-term, he knows, but it feels significant, like tangible evidence that his leadership contributions mean something. 

And the way Jonny looks at him when he’s got it…

Patrick can’t get enough of it. 

“Looks good on you,” he’d said in warm-ups, huddled in close behind Patrick, nudging him in the small of his back, voice low. “Alternate Captain.” 

Patrick blushed, just like he’s blushing now with Jonny’s eyes on him as he unlaces his skates. Jonny smirks, eyes flicking down to it, gaze heavy. He’s up, undressed, and off to the showers before Patrick’s even taken it off. 

On his way, he swings by for a pointed visit, much to Patrick’s delight, running his hand over the embroidered letter, then brushes the apple of Patrick’s cheek with his knuckle. 

“Still looks good,” he whispers, and Patrick shamelessly taps his ass as he walks off. 

“That does, too,” Patrick answers. Jonny throws a sleazy look over his shoulder–his right shoulder–so Patrick gets another eye full of that ear and makes a gagging face at him. 

It’s so sick, and Patrick’s really not happy about it. One of his favorite things to do–and one of Jonny’s favorite things he does–is play with Jonny’s ears, just gently run his finger or tongue over the shell of them. It gets Jonny hot so fast, it’s stupid. 

Well, the right one is out of commission for a bit now, unfortunately. Jonny’s probably going to whine about it, too. 

 

*

 

That proves true on the plane, but Patrick doesn’t mind, obviously. 

Jonny can whine as much as he wants. 

They file on, and usually Patrick always takes the window seat, but before he can scoot in, Jonny huffs loudly in protest. 

“What? You want my window seat?” Patrick chuckles, taking in Jonny’s pouty face. 

“Well, I–sort of,” Jonny mutters. “I wanted to lay on you, ya know, and I can’t on this side, cuz’a my ear.” 

He’s so grumbly and pitiful, it’s adorable. Patrick obliges him immediately. 

“Sure, Jon,” he says, shuffling out of the way. “S’fine with me.” 

Jonny grins and sits down, immediately folding up the armrest so there’s nothing between them when Patrick joins. Teammates are filing on, and Jonny speaks to some of them briefly before they tune them out completely, easily slipping into their bubble. 

“Feelin’ okay?” Patrick asks once they’re settled; his arms around Jonny, Jonny’s face nuzzled into his neck, fingers gripping Patrick’s thigh. Jonny’s probably got a headache, or had a headache, anyway, before they drugged him up post-game–pucks to the side of the head will usually do that–so Patrick whispers, keeps his voice low, soothing.  

“Just sore, stings a little,” Jonny shrugs. 

“I meant your head, not your gross ear,” Patrick teases, kissing Jonny’s damp hair as he reaches up to card his fingers through it. 

“Hey! It’s not–” Jonny starts, then sighs, defeated. “Yeah, it’s pretty nasty, I guess.” 

“’Least I didn’t do it this time, huh?”

“I guess,” Jonny repeats. “Even though my face is  _still_  fucked up.”

“Don’t talk about my favorite face like that,” Patrick admonishes, rewarded with a brush of Jonny’s lips against his neck. “Really though, I’m sorry you’re hurtin’, babe. We’ll put some stuff on it when we get home.” 

“Gonna fix me up?” Jonny asks, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s waist, squeezing tight, really making himself at home. 

“You can call me Dr. Kane,” Patrick tells him, reclining his seat to make them more comfortable, much to Seabs’s protests behind them, his long ass legs getting in the way. 

“I like Alternate Captain Kane better,” Jonny says, bringing his hand up to rest on Patrick’s chest where his ‘A’ would be, if he were wearing his sweater. 

“You’re really into that, huh?” Patrick replies, cheeks flushing, Jonny’s hand hot even through his shirt. 

“Mmm, yeah,” Jonny mumbles sleepily, undoubtedly feeling his painkillers at this point. “Gonna be the way it is one day, when we put Duncs and Seabs to pasture and you have it all the time.” 

Patrick feels a kick to the back of his seat, obviously Seabs, the fucking eavesdropper. Jonny doesn’t seem to care. 

“My alternate captain,” he ‘hmmm’s contentedly, tilting up to press a kiss to Patrick’s jaw. 

“Yours,” Patrick whispers back, cuddling his cheek into Jonny’s hair, listening as his breathing gets louder, evens with sleep, before they’ve even taxied to the runway. 

Patrick dozes shortly after and dreams of later days, with permanent ‘As’ and stitch-free ears… 

 

*

 

They’re both so tired when they get home at ass o’clock in the morning, Patrick barely has the presence of mind to remember to put ointment on Jonny’s disgusting wound before they strip down and fall face-first into bed.

He settles in comfortably, silky sheets cool against his skin, and waits for sleep to take him, resolved not to wake until at least ten. Practice is optional, and he and Jonny will be taking that option, rest assured.

It doesn’t come as easily for Jonny, if his huffing and tossing and turning are anything to go by. He’d zonked out for the duration of the flight, and he’s always grouchy en route from the airport to home, but he’s usually quick to pass out again once they get there; not tonight, though.

“What is it, Jon?” Patrick mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s this fuckin’—I can’t get comfortable,” Jonny grumps, aggressively fluffing (punching) his pillow. Ah, Patrick gets it now. Jonny’s a side-sleeper—a _right_ side sleeper, extra pillow between his knees, hands stuffed under his head—so his ear is fucking with his sleep position.

“Try the left side, babe. It’s just like the right, except, you know…not,” Patrick suggests around a yawn, reaching over to rub his hand soothingly over Jonny’s chest.

“I don’t know why everybody keeps hittin’ me in the head with shit,” Jonny complains, dramatically shifting to his left side away from Patrick, bouncing the whole bed with the movement. Patrick’s hand slides to his shoulder, and he gives a gentle squeeze before letting it fall to the bed between them.

There’re a couple minutes of silence before Jonny speaks again.

“Don’t like it,” he protests, scooting to the middle of the bed until the small of his back bumps Patrick’s fingers.

This right here. This is the whining Patrick was talking about.

He smiles to himself at Jonny’s ridiculousness, fingers tickling the warm skin there, then moves his hand around to grip Jonny’s hip.

“Wanna be my lil’ spoon?” Patrick asks, shifting closer, knowing what the answer will be.

Jonny’s quiet for a second, like he’s actually thinking about it, then shrugs.

“Maybe.”

Patrick’s grin grows wider, and he kisses the back of Jonny’s shoulder as he quickly moves to wrap himself around him. He loops his arm through the space beneath Jonny’s neck, the other snugly over Jonny’s waist, fingers grazing the divots of his abs.

“Mmmm, this’s nice,” Patrick says, pulling Jonny back into his chest, careful of his ear as he nuzzles into his neck. “Better?”

Jonny laces his fingers with Patrick’s on his belly.

“Better.”

 

*

 

Patrick blinks awake slowly, sunlight filtering in through parted curtains and dancing across his eyelids, comforter pooled at his waist. Jonny keeps it icebox cold in the house, the chilly air goosepimpling Patrick’s chest and arms, nipples stiffening in a shiver.

Despite that, he feels good, rested, like a million bucks—or maybe half a million, still a little tight from the night before. Winnipeg’s always a rough ride.

Patrick gently rolls over to poke the bear, and much to his surprise, Jonny’s already up, watching him with heavy, half-lidded eyes; he’s on his right side, arm bent strategically to create a safe cubby for his ear, smiling softly when Patrick meets his gaze.

“How long you been creepin’ me, weirdo?” Patrick teases, stretching with a groan, back cracking in that way that’s painful but instantly satisfying. He settles again, closer to Jonny this time, and reaches to cup his cheek, index finger playing at the ear he’s allowed to touch.

“Mornin’ to you, too,” Jonny answers, ignoring his question, which means he’s been up for a minute. Patrick’s long come to terms with the fact that Jonny likes to watch him sleep on the rare occasions he’s awake first; Patrick likes it, too. Jonny knows that.

Jonny puts his hand over Patrick’s and turns his face into it to kiss Patrick’s palm, mumbling against it, “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” Patrick grins, grazing his finger over Jonny’s lip, tracing the tiny scar that bisects it.

“Nice and rested?” Jonny presses curiously, and Patrick can smell his ulterior motives from a mile away.

“I’m not going for a run,” Patrick answers flatly, and Jonny chuckles, a sweet, innocent sound that makes Patrick’s heart swell in his chest. He’s still not, though—no chance.

“I wasn’t thinkin’ a run,” Jonny answers, voice dropping low, nipping at Patrick’s finger; his eyes have gone dark, gaze hooded, and—

_Oh._

“But maybe a workout right here, if you know—”

“I know what you mean,” Patrick interrupts—Jonny’s so lame—leaning in for a kiss. Jonny’s mouth is cool and minty fresh, confirming Patrick’s guess that he’s been awake for a bit, which is still baffling as hell.

“Interested?” Jonny asks against his mouth, and Patrick scoffs, pulling back to eye him seriously.

“Duh, when am I not? Lemme piss real fast,” he says, hauling himself out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom, quickly taking care of business, peeing then brushing his teeth.

He checks himself out in the mirror, unruly mess of shortened curls all over the place, and rakes his fingers through them for taming purposes. It only takes two passes of his hands before he realizes how stupid it is; Jonny doesn’t give a single shit what his hair looks like and neither does he.

Patrick pads back to the bedroom to find Jonny on his back, boxers already off and on the floor, arms folded casually behind his head. Patrick wants to devour him.

He shuffles over and wastes no time throwing a leg over Jonny’s thighs to straddle his hips, hands coming down on his chest.

“I love morning sex,” Patrick announces, as if it’s some grand revelation that Jonny was unaware of prior.

“No way?” Jonny smirks, gripping the back of Patrick’s neck to pull him down into a filthy kiss. Patrick braces his elbows on either side of Jonny’s head, hands coming down in his hair as they move together, Patrick grinding his hardening, still-clothed dick into Jonny’s stomach. He can feel Jonny’s erection nudging his ass, curved up just right, and he shivers, fully aware that in a moment, all barriers will be gone, and Jonny’ll be inside him, right where he belongs.

“Hey, Peeks,” Jonny mumbles, moving to kiss along his jaw, hands ghosting up Patrick’s sides. “I—Could you get something from my bag for me?”

“Got some special lube in there or some shit?” Patrick asks, sitting up, idly wondering why Jonny didn’t ask for this before they started with the making out, but whatever.

“Or some shit,” he answers, patting Patrick’s thigh to urge him on, pushy and impatient as always.

“Okay, okay,” Patrick relents, hopping off him to go do as he’s been asked. He’s clearly going for the side pocket when Jonny directs him otherwise.

“Big zipper,” he says, and now he’s firmly captured Patrick’s curiosity. Is he hoarding some weird sex toys in his bag? It wasn’t even that long of a road trip…

Patrick unzips it and immediately gets an eyeful of—

It’s his sweater. Patrick’s sweater, from the night before.

The one with the A.

Patrick pulls it from the bag, runs his fingers over the letter, then glances back at Jonny from his crouched position. Jonny’s sitting up now, chewing on his bottom lip, wicked gleam in his eye.

“You lifted this from the laundry?” Patrick asks, mock horror in his voice. “You dirty thief.”

“We need it more than they do,” Jonny answers, totally unashamed, convinced he’s justified in his crime.

“We do?” Patrick stands, holds the jersey up to his chest and steps back over toward the bed.

“ _I_ do,” Jonny clarifies. “Want you to wear it, Pat, when you ride me.”

Patrick’s dick twitches in his boxers, very, very interested in that idea and its accompanying visual, but he tries to be coy about it.

“Oh yeah? That gonna do it for you?”

Jonny’s eyes go impossibly darker, voice steady and sexy and sure when he responds, “You’re fucking right it’s gonna do it for me.”

Patrick’s done with the games after that, because he’d be lying out his ass if he said it’s not gonna do it for him, too. He strips his boxers off, almost tripping on them en route to Jonny, pulling the sweater over his head as he goes. It’s extra baggy, without padding, hem brushing Patrick’s thighs and against his dick.

He’s on Jonny in seconds, shoving him back to the mattress, and Jonny goes with a growl and a filthy grin, Patrick following to take his mouth again. The sweater’s bunched around his thighs, excess material falling down his wrists; it’s a little annoying, but Patrick’s working through it, and Jonny doesn’t seem to notice. He tugs at Patrick’s fight strap, getting his hands beneath the thick fabric, massaging into Patrick’s back and shoulders as they kiss, wet and sloppy and building.

They’re both hard, and Patrick’s ready to get this show on the road.

“C’mon, Jonny, touch me,” Patrick tells him, breathless and turned on. Jonny moves a hand from Patrick’s back up to his mouth, and Patrick sucks two fingers between his lips, tonguing them to get them nice and wet. This won’t be enough to do the job of opening him up, but it’s a fun start.

“Yeahhh, Kaner,” Jonny encourages, using his other hand to skim between Patrick’s cheeks, gripping one firmly to pull them apart, making room for his split-slicked fingers to graze Patrick’s hole. The cool contrast against Patrick’s heated skin is jolting, a whine escaping as Jonny gently works his rim, pressing and testing its give.

Patrick kisses him again, hard, and then fumbles for the nightstand drawer, satisfied when Jonny’s fingers follow, never breaking contact as Patrick leans over him to dig for actual lube.

Jonny moves his hand only when Patrick’s popped the cap, settling back in Jonny’s lap and dispensing a decent amount on Jonny’s waiting fingers. He rubs them together to warm it a bit, then reaches around Patrick again, dipping under the sweater to get to his ass.

“Can’t wait to get in there, Peeks,” Jonny grumbles. Patrick can feel it under his hands, resting on Jonny’s chest as he braces himself, raised on his knees to give Jonny better access. “See you on my dick wearin’ this, my alternate captain.”

“Jonny, fuck,” Patrick says, moaning when Jonny pushes a finger in, slick and stretching.

“Looks so good on you,” Jonny continues. “All I could think about in the locker room—gettin’ you home, gettin’ inside you.”

“Hurry up, then,” Patrick presses, choking on his words when Jonny immediately adds another finger and starts gently thrusting, scissoring them to get Patrick ready to take him. Patrick’s panting, rocking back onto Jonny’s fingers, and it’s so hot, in every sense of the word; the heavy sweater overheating him, Jonny’s breath hot against his neck, licking and biting at the sensitive skin there. The sweater smells a little though, which is not hot, not to Patrick anyway, but again, Jonny doesn’t seem to notice.

“Please, Jonny,” Patrick begs after Jonny adds a third. “I’m good, I’m fucking good.”

“Shhh, let me,” Jonny murmurs, kissing him softly, a sweet counterpoint to the onslaught of his fingers in Patrick’s ass, the stretch so good, leaving him crazy for more. “Don’t want you sore, gettin’ you to a hundred tomorrow, Kaner. I feel it.”

“Shit,” Patrick hisses; he feels it, too— _everything_. Despite the terrible angle, Jonny’s fucking nailing his prostate, and it’s so, so good, he’s gagging for it. “Jonny, if you don’t—I want you so bad, right now, c’mon.”

Jonny stretches his fingers again—once, twice—and Patrick guesses he’s satisfied with a job well done or either he’s getting impatient as well, because he removes his fingers and gestures for the lube again. Patrick’s dizzy with it, but manages to grab the bottle and successfully squirt some in Jonny’s hand. He grabs Patrick by the back of his neck, bringing him down for a kiss as he reaches to slick himself up. Patrick can hear the squelching sounds with each pass of Jonny’s hand, and the anticipation, the arousal deep in his belly, only grows. He’s about to ride Jonny like there’s no tomorrow, give him the show he’s after, sweater and all.

“All yours,” Jonny tells him, voice rough, tugging at Patrick’s bottom lip with his teeth. Patrick’s pushes himself up, reaches back to take Jonny’s hot, hard dick in his hand, and spares no second lifting his hips and guiding himself down onto it, moaning loudly as he goes.

“Fuck, fuck, you didn’t waste any—Jesus fuck,” Jonny chokes, gripping Patrick’s thighs as Patrick clenches around him, adjusting to the additional girth inside him, fully seated.

“Wanna make this good for you, Jon,” Patrick pants, grinding his hips in small circles, Jonny’s dick nudging his prostate with each motion, lighting him up.

“S’already good for me, baby,” Jonny replies, chest and cheeks flushed beautifully, splotchy with his arousal.

Patrick grins at him—fuck, he loves him so goddamn much—and starts to move, rising up until Jonny’s almost all the way out, head of his dick catching on Patrick’s rim, before lowering himself back down, slow and steady, over and over and over…

“You feel so fuckin’ good, Peeks,” Jonny grunts. “Christ, you should fuckin’ see yourself, in that goddamn sweater, you’re killing me.”

“Yeah, Jonny? Gettin’ you hot, babe?” Patrick asks, even though he knows the answer. Aside from the added warmth, the sweater isn’t bad for Patrick either; each time he moves, his dick thrusts into the fabric, and the stimulation to his head, aided by the pre-come collecting there, is excellent.

“Yesss, fuck yes,” Jonny moans, abs bunching and shoulders rolling minutely as he shifts with Patrick’s bouncing movements, picking up speed now, growing more erratic. Jonny reaches up with a shaky hand, breathing uneven, and traces Patrick’s A before grabbing it, using it to pull himself up to Patrick’s mouth, tightening the angle.

“Deserve to wear this—ungh—all the time,” he mumbles, fisting his other hand in Patrick’s hair. Their lips brush together, breath hot against each other’s mouths as Patrick moves up and down, up and down, dick pressed between them.

“My alternate,” Jonny repeats, fucked out, panting in that way that tells Patrick he’s close, which is a good thing, because Patrick loses it, coming hard and hot between them, absolutely ruining that damn sweater. He clenches tight around Jonny’s dick as his orgasm ripples though him, and Jonny wraps an arm around his waist, lifts him just enough to make space for him to thrust up, once, twice, three times, then he’s coming, too, shouting Patrick’s name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Fuck, Jonny, yeah, give it to me,” Patrick urges, arms thrown around Jonny’s neck, moaning as Jonny pumps his hips, filling Patrick up.

Jonny collapses back onto the bed when he’s done, pulling Patrick with him, making sure to stay inside. Patrick kisses lazily along his jaw, sloppy and fucked out, hand splayed across Jonny’s neck, pulse racing beneath his touch as they come down.

“Trashed this sweater,” Patrick points out. He feels his come, unpleasantly tacky against his skin, and can only imagine what hell it’ll be trying to get it out of this fabric. Hey, at least it’s white.

“Keepin’ it anyway,” Jonny says, pushing Patrick’s curls off his forehead to press a kiss there.

“Mmm, yeah, okay,” Patrick grins, drifting again, even though he really wants to clean up before they pass out. He feels Jonny slip from him as he softens, sending a little tremor though him. “Clean me up,” he says, hoping Jonny will be more about the whole moving thing than he is.

“My ear hurts,” Jonny tries as an excuse, and Patrick thumps him in the chest. Jonny chuckles, scooting Patrick off him so he can go get a rag, and Patrick’s almost asleep when he feels Jonny gently wiping him down.

“Gonna leave that on?” Jonny asks, and Patrick raises his arms for Jonny to work the sweater off, jumping at the cool cloth that follows on his belly. “Man, you’re useless.”

“Shut up,” Patrick yawns, making grabby hands for Jonny to come back to bed.

“Lucky I want you resting, anyway,” Jonny says. “Meant what I said about tomorrow.”

“A hundred?” Patrick asks, cracking an eyelid to look at him. It’d take a four-point game to get it, but maybe…

“A hundred,” Jonny confirms confidently, kissing the corner of Patrick’s mouth before they settle in for sleep.

 

*

 

When Patrick scores his one-hundredth point, by completing a hat trick no less, and passes Jonny on the fly-by, he’s got that same confidence in his eyes as the day before, like he never doubted it for a second.

“Told you,” he shouts, and Patrick beams at him, on top of the world—and the scoring chart.

**Author's Note:**

> the first little part of this is already posted under my ficlets, and i didn't want to delete it to trash the comments that'd already been made, but i added enough to it that it became something on its own. oh well. 
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com)!


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